1000 Days at the Chateau- chapter 10&11
by Jacqueline Boutade
Summary: Valentine becomes aware that her bonded time is moving on. The marquis turns to cruelty and voyeurism commanding Valentine to 'entertain' the Parisian gardeners. She grows to hate him as he delights in her humiliation. Unsatisfied by her 'performance' he sends her away to work on a farm belonging to the estate. Her love for him has died.


One Thousand Days – Chapter 10 – Another Story

Winter's dark days were filled with routine and long faces. The marquis returned to riding out on his visits to the villages within the estate: he spent long days in the saddle, with Jacques by his side as he checked his domain. He commanded Valentine to wait upon his desires twice a week but with few words and little emotion. She returned to silence, acquiescing to his wishes in mute compliance.

It was not a happy place for many. The dowager remained in her room and seemed to lose much of her vigor over the colder months. She suffered a chill and spent weeks in her bed. Mathilde was called to her side, leaving Valentine for Sophie to care for but as the marquis' attentions had waned, Sophie found she could cope with Mathilde's role.

Spring came gently but with it renewed energy and new gardeners were appointed to create something exciting and new in the grounds. Sophie was full of the news, excited at the prospect of some young man who might be interested in her.

'I need to be finding someone,' she said to Valentine as she dressed her for her evening with the marquis. 'Perhaps one of them will look on me with delight.'

'But there are already charming young men on the estate,' Valentine said. 'Didn't you dance all night at the ball last year?'

Sophie sighed. 'I'm not getting any younger, mistress. I need to find a husband soon.'

'How old are you Sophie?'

'Nearly nineteen, mistress. My mother had two children by my age. I'll be a spinster if I'm not careful.'

'I'm nearly nineteen too,' Valentine remembered.

'Then you'll be well over half way through your thousand days. Your contract will cease before you turn twenty.'

Valentine looked at Sophie in surprise. 'I hadn't realised.' Where had the time gone? She hadn't seen her family in nearly two years. She had been a girl, now she was a woman but what would happen to her when the contract expired and she no longer had to honour her bond?

'I'd be looking for a husband too,' Sophie went on. 'For when the marquis releases you. Mathilde says that's what happens. If you've pleased him he'll let you stay on if you want or marry someone.' Sophie thought for a moment. 'I'd marry someone. I'd like a husband of my own.'

'Who would have me though, Sophie, once the marquis no longer wants me?'

Sophie looked at her sad face, still so child like in many ways for all her womanly experiences. 'Valentine, sometimes you are a little stupid.'

Valentine glared at Sophie. 'Be careful, Sophie. I am still the marquis' mistress and you are my maid.'

Sophie bowed her head.

Valentine sighed, curious despite herself. 'Go on, Sophie.'

'Rene adores you, mistress. You know he does. He would do anything for you. He is a fine young man, strong and handsome enough. The marquis thinks well of him and he is being prepared to be master of the stables, in charge of all the workers and the horses. He would be ideal for you. He already loves you.'

Valentine blushed. She was fond of Rene too, but to marry him and remain on the estate as the wife of one of the servants, albeit one of the more highly ranked and regarded servants? She sighed, but what other choices would be open to her? What had Pierre said, so many months ago, marriage was not about love but many other things? Perhaps that was true for her too?

'You are too impertinent, Sophie, even to me. It will not win you a husband.'

Sophie smiled, aware she had touched a nerve with Valentine, aware she had made her smile for the first time in weeks.

The troupe of gardeners arrived from Paris as the days started to lengthen and the sun re-gathered her strength. There was a designer, a leading hand and three young men, strong and fit who spent several days walking around the grounds. The marquis walked out with the designer and leading hand at appointed hours during the day to consider the sun, the shade, the placement of the chateau and other buildings and the purpose of the garden. They walked with a set of plans in hand to roll out at points and discuss. The designer returned to the library where he was installed – depriving Valentine of one of her favourite places – to revise the draft design brought from Paris. Finally a place was selected, a barrier erected and work began.

On the evening the first sod was turned the marquis had a present for Valentine, her first in many months. She started to smile at him but stopped: his face was stern. Within the box she found a papier mache mask from Venice and a wig in the current style from Paris.

'They are for our new story,' he said. 'Put them on for me.'

The wig was light compared to many but felt very odd on. The mask covered most of Valentine's face, with only her mouth and chin uncovered. It tied at the back of her head and could sit under the wig. She felt enclosed, shut off beneath the cage of hair and mask. Although the mask was beautiful, coloured crimson and gold and light on her face she felt most uncomfortable wearing it. She felt imprisoned by it.

'Look in the glass,' the marquis commanded.

Valentine did not recognise herself reflected there. With her face obscured and her hair hidden she was a stranger, she could have been any woman from anywhere, albeit one with expensive accessories. She wondered what story the marquis was going to tell her in this disguise.

'I have commissioned a most particular dress for you to wear with the mask. It is a copy of a dress worn by a famous courtesan from Paris. I think you will like it and it is a central part of our story, as it will complete your disguise.'

Valentine removed the mask and wig, a growing sense of unease filling her belly. The marquis had been distant with her ever since she failed to conceive a child for him. She no longer felt the strength of attachment for him. His coldness had cooled her love. He made love to her automatically, not looking into her eyes, not kissing her mouth. They made no sound, no words were exchanged. After he had finished with her, he bowed stiffly and left at once. There was no lingering, no soft embraces in the twilight of their coupling. She had become nothing more than a convenience to him.

She felt the difference keenly but her affection for the marquis she loved remained, as did her heart-felt wish that they returned to that month of intimacy after his return from the prince's wedding. But looking at his eyes as he spoke she knew that any hope that she might have clung to was gone. As he sketched his ideas for the coming weeks she felt the room fill with ice and where her heart had been a piece of stone was forming.

Valentine dressed in the wig and mask, her crimson and gold dress, lace gloves and took her parasol to the new garden. She sat on the bench placed under the chestnut tree facing the chateau waiting for the gardeners to return from their lunch break. She was to sit silently, allowing them to admire her and pay her attention. She could smile in return but not speak. She was to sit until they went off for their afternoon break: a total of two hours.

The marquis observed Valentine from the tower, the only room in the chateau that could see the garden bench under the tree. The marquis used his opera glasses to watch more closely. At the end of a week he called her to his rooms.

'Tell me what you did this week, Valentine.' He did not indicate for her to approach him or prepare herself for him. He sat at his bureau, fiddling with letters and papers. 'I want to hear an interesting story of your time in the garden.'

She told him of the size of the garden, of the stakes in the ground to indicate particular plants and patterns. She explained how the younger men dug into the soil and moved it around while the two older men gave orders and supervised the men. She described how they sweated in the afternoon sun, how their brows were wet, how their forearms bulged with muscle as they moved the heavy soil around. She described the comfort of her bench, the simple pleasure of watching men at work.

'Were the young men handsome?' the marquis asked.

'I do not know.'

'Come, come, Valentine, surely you know enough of the world to know if a man is handsome or plain. Were the young men handsome, did you find them pleasing?'

She nodded. 'They were pleasing.'

'Were you pleased by their attentions?'

She nodded again. 'I was happy to receive their compliments.'

'Would you like to have more attention from these men?'

She looked at his emotionless face and feared to answer. 'I had not thought on the matter, sir.'

'I think you deserve more attention and I desire a better story. Instructions will be with you presently. You may go.'

Valentine arranged herself carefully on the bend, now without the security of her dress, she displayed her petticoats and bloomers to the men. Her corsets had been tied tightly to ensure her bosom was more prominent than usual. She smiled at the men as she sat this way and that, showing her bloomers as she crossed her legs and sighed in the warm sun. She ran her fingers across her bosom, as if inviting them to touch her. She pouted beneath her mask and blew a kiss to the foreman.

He came to sit with her, removing his hat in respect. She smiled and let her hand linger on his thigh. She paid him small compliments about his work and he returned to the garden delighted with her sweet attention. As the week went on each man took his turn sitting at the bench with her. She touched each one lightly, on the leg or their naked arm, paid compliments and allowed compliments in return. She allowed the most handsome of the group to let his hands linger on her breasts, ensuring that the other young men saw his moment of pleasure.

The marquis watched from his eyrie.

'I expect a better story this week,' he said, as she stood before him. This week he was seated in front of the fire and paid her better attention as she spoke. He remained without affection and she spoke without looking into his face, telling of the warmth of the sun on her bare arms, how well the work was proceeding, how friendly and charming the men were. How full of compliments they were for her, for her kindness in spending time admiring their work and talking to them. She spoke of the sweetness in the air, the pleasure of being part of a new garden coming to life.

'I knew you would enjoy more attention. Which attentions did you prefer, Valentine, tell me all and tell me why.'

She looked at his face and looked away again. 'I enjoyed the men sitting with me. I liked the smell of the earth upon them. I liked the hardness of their muscles and the brownness of their skin. I liked the way they looked at my breasts.'

'Did you not like the way one of them touched your breasts?'

She gasped. How did he know? Was one of the men reporting back to him? 'His skin was rough upon mine.'

'But did you like him touching you?'

'Yes. I liked his warm hand upon my bosom.'

'And you would let him do that again?'

She nodded, as she knew he expected her to.

'What of the others, would you let them touch your bosom too?'

She nodded.

He nodded. 'Good, that is good. Now, you may come here and please me.' He directed her to fall on her knees and attend to his flies. She took his erection in her hand and made it harder. 'Take me in your mouth,' he said. 'Do not move away until I am finished.'

The weather turned ugly and rained for seven days and turned cold again. Work on the garden was suspended and fortunately it coincided with Valentine's time of the month. She was pleased to be relieved of the marquis' presence and spent the cold days quietly in her rooms, reading and resting, considering her future. She was more than two thirds through her contract, her days here were numbered. She set to thinking about what Sophie had said, what would she do next?

Once she thought she'd have done anything to stay with the marquis, would have been content to be his mistress forever, even endure a wife, provided he still came to her. But now, she was ready to leave, to never see or speak to the marquis again. She had hated him after her time with his friends and their particular desires. Although she thought of Pierre with fondness, and was pleased that he wished to be remembered to her. Now though, the thought of what the marquis wanted her to do made her sick, made her question him. She looked at him and felt only disgust and thought longingly of a normal life, of time with a kind man with normal needs. The thought of someone sincere and kind like Rene was appealing. She dwelt on the matter fleetingly, knowing that to dream a happy future was futile for someone such as herself. She put away thoughts of Rene and returned to her books, praying for the rain to continue; praying for someone to rescue her, to save her from the marquis and further humiliation.

As the sun returned Valentine was back on the gardeners' bench, this time without her petticoats or bloomers, simply in her corsets and stockings. She was glad of the mask as she felt her shame burning her face as she sat with her legs relaxed, her sex on full display for the men as instructed. They too, seemed embarrassed by her display and found it impossible to look at her face, although she caught them frequently looking down her soft thighs into her pink sex. She moved on the seat, sometimes covering herself with her legs, but that only showed the fleshy nakedness of her bottom to advantage and the men enjoyed their lascivious glances at her bottom as much as her sex.

'You must be nicer to them,' the marquis chided at the end of the week after she had told her tale of stolen glances but nothing else. 'You must encourage them to sit with you again, to accept the rewards you offer them. After all, they are working so hard in my garden and I want them to be rewarded.'

She gasped.

'You are their prize, my dear. My gift to them for coming so far to make me a beautiful garden. You must make their efforts worthwhile.'

She nodded in acquiescence.

'I expected a better story from you, Valentine. Perhaps I have over-estimated your skills?'

He pushed her skirts up to feel her nakedness. He let his hand linger there a few moments, encouraging her to believe he wanted her, then he slapped her hard, making her wince. 'I am tired of being disappointed, Valentine.'

She nodded, bowed and left him with a heart as cold as obsidian. She cried herself to sleep, cried her love out, sobbing onto her pillows yet again. She hated him but she hated herself more for being so naive, so stupid and trusting.

She put on a performance for the gardeners, smiled for them, winking at them as she moved her body in such a way that she was theirs if only they had the courage. She heard them murmuring, looking at her, deciding: who would go first. Perhaps they had received a message too, that they could do more than look?

The foreman approached her first, as was his right given his superior rank, as well as his age. He was a sturdy man, with thick fingers, but a pleasant countenance. He placed his broad hand upon her slender thigh and emboldened moved her hand to touch his manhood, stirring in his breeches. He seemed not to mind that his workers were merely pretending to work, while he took his moments of pleasure with her. She felt him thicken and stir within his clothing, desiring release. He leant his head into her bosom and nestled there for a moment as he moved his hand up her thigh towards her waiting sex. He touched his thick finger to her and she unbuttoned him, leaning her head to take him in her mouth. He moaned, lying back on the bench, overwhelmed by the sensation of her mouth tightening and tugging on his tumescent member. He threw his hands above his head and shouted with joy. He pushed his groin into her face, his dick into her expert mouth. He came quickly and happily. His workers smiled lasciviously knowing their turns were coming.

The remaining workers drew straws to see who would be next. She smiled, pouted, displayed her sex, moving her hands across her bosom and down to her thighs. She knew somewhere the marquis was watching or someone was watching for him. She would give him his story if it was the last thing she did. She was to please these men, then so she would. The foreman had been easy, a simple man at heart who would not forget her. The young men, well, they were also impressionable for all their bravado in the field, their flexing muscles and cheeky grins. She would make any woman they knew regret their time at the Chateau de Chatillon.

The smallest of the trio was first, barely putting down his tools as she arrived the day after rewarding the foreman. He was blond and tanned, his arms covered in soft golden hair, his nose was sharp and his eyes very blue. He knelt at her feet, placed his hands on her knees and moved her legs wide apart. He sat for many moments just looking at her and then he thrust his face into her sex, into her warm, dark primal sex. She shuddered on her seat, this was nice, this was more than pleasurable. She moaned softly as he flickered his tongue in and out of her, as if he was whipping her with it. She arched her back and moved herself towards him, willing his whole mouth inside her. She had often done this for others but this was the first time someone had done it for her. He stopped once she was open and ready. He moved into her swiftly and surely, piercing her like an arrow. She hooked her legs around his body and let him lift her from the seat, she hung from his arms, squeezing him tight into her. It lasted only moments and he was spent. He set back on the bench, bowed and thanked her for her time.

The gardeners left work that day smiling and chatting, two proud and pleased with their conquest, two eager and keen for their turn with the masked girl on the bench. They had heard tales of the decadence of the aristocracy, but had thought most of the stories came from Paris. They were most surprised and pleased to be party to the fun and games themselves.

She was called to the marquis that evening, attired as if for bed. He nodded to her. 'Your story is progressing well. Tell me, which did you prefer, his tongue inside you or his dick?'

She was getting used to the marquis' new vulgar manner of speech, but still she blushed, as much from the memory of the sensations as his crude use of language.

'Both were pleasurable, sir.'

He nodded. 'I thought as much.' He directed her to his bed. 'I have need of you. Remove your gown.' He lay down beside her, gazing at her for some time. 'It's hard to believe such a lovely body can be the temple of such devilry,' he said, pinching her hard on the nipple, making her cry out in pain. 'The devil must be in you.' He slapped her face and pinched her other nipple. 'I must drive him out.' He pushed her onto her front so he could not see her face and pulling her hips up from the bed entered her roughly and pushed into her as hard as he could, unheeding of her crying into the pillow. He fucked her like she was an animal in the field, as if she had no feeling, as if she was a piece of meat. When he was done, he slapped her bottom. 'Get out of here. I don't want you back until your work in the garden is done.' He avoided her face, her tears and reproachful eyes.

It was hard to sit in the garden as if everything was all right but what else could she do. She felt the shame of her actions, of her responses to the men and mostly of the marquis' actions. She no longer knew him, understood him. There was some pleasure in watching others make love, she thought she understood that, that people gained pleasure in many ways, but why was he so angry with her when she was doing as he asked? Surely he knew she would never do such things of her own choosing, surely he knew she was shaming herself at his bidding?

She sighed, at least it would be the turn of the two handsome men next. If she concentrated she might almost convince herself she was doing this because she wanted to. The one with curly brown hair, a little like a younger version of Frederick, approached with a broad smile. He touched her breasts with pleasure and confidence, squeezing them and massaging them so she felt a thrill of pleasure from his touch. He moved her hand to stroke his thighs and then to his manhood. As he came free of his flies and erect he moved her onto him, her back facing the other men and the chateau. Her feet sat on the bench either side of him and her knees in the air, her hands grabbed the back of the seat and he held her hips moving her up and down on his thick stem. He watched her face and she watched his. He kept his eyes open all the time and she leant to kiss him as he pushed deep inside her. It jerked him in deeper and made him come perhaps quicker than he intended.

On Friday the handsome one who had touched her breasts so cheekily that first week approached her. The others had given up all pretence of working and downed tools to watch, enjoying their friend's pleasure as their own. He walked around her on the bench, trailing his hand across her shoulders, the nape of her neck. He lingered at the ribbon for the mask and she was frightened he was going to untie it and unmask her. Instead he leant into kiss her neck, sending a small thrill all the way down her spine to her coccix. He leant his arms around her and placed both large brown rough hands on her soft white breasts. He let his hands simply rest there, covering them, thrilling them with the weight of his hands. He walked around the bench, examining her, pulling her legs around, to better look at her thighs, as he ran his hands down the length of them. He took her hand, inviting her to stand, he walked her to the rear of the bench. He placed her hands on the back of the seat and moved her legs out and apart. He rubbed himself against her, his rough breeches against her soft bottom. She could feel him growing as he rubbed. He ran his hand across her bottom down to her sex where a dampness was in evidence. He pushed his fingers into her, making her sigh. He moved her bottom just so and pushed into her, slowly and deeply, eliciting an involuntary exhalation of joy from her. He thrust several times, winking at the other boys. He reached to her breasts and spilled them from her corsets, so he could squeeze them and the others could see and enjoy what he was doing. They watched between her legs as he made her wider and wetter before finally exploding into her moaning swaying body. He held her sated body to his and kissed her triumphantly on her mouth. She sat on the bench and every other man filed passed her kissing her mouth and thanking her for her kindness towards them.

She was alone in the sun. The garden built and the men gone. She sighed with relief, closed her eyes and sat completely still. Something told her things were not going to get better. She felt a sudden breeze, but more in her heart than her body. The marquis was no longer the man she loved: he was a stranger, some aristocrat who thought he could do as he wanted with the people of his estates. She had been mistaken in her love for him, in her assessment of his character.

She sighed, standing uncertainly on her feet, a deep aching inside her, a soreness in her sex she did not appreciate. If she never made love to another man she would be happy. She would finish her 1000 days and find a convent, confess the depravity of her life at the chateau and spend the rest of her life in service to God, atoning for her terrible sins, for letting her body be defiled so much, for wishing away her child.

She looked up to the chateau, to the tower, where she suspected the marquis lurked, hating him, knowing she would never love him again, wondering if he ever had.

One Thousand Days – Chapter 11 – The Marquis' Pleasure

Valentine was brought to the marquis once she had returned from the gardens. She was not allowed to dress or freshen up. He waited for her in the tower, where he had watched her every day.

She waited at the door for his word.

'Come by me at the window. Do you remember looking out from here, when I told you I could see everything?'

She nodded. It was as she had suspected. Had he planned this all along, from the moment they had dined here on his return from Prince Alexei's wedding, when he had declared his affection for her and given her the dining suite? Was he that calculated, that cruel? She laughed at her own stupidity, wanting love so much she saw it where it didn't exist at all.

'Look there,' he pointed to the enclosed garden and the seat where she had been just thirty minutes before. He had been watching after all. She gave a small shudder of revulsion.

'Look at you.' He frowned. 'Do I know you?' He put his fingers inside her. 'You're still wet, still full of his sex.'

'I was not permitted to prepare for you.'

He put up his hand to quieten her. 'It matters not, you are just a whore. I knew it from the start. With myself, my friends, and now with common workers. Come here and sit on me as you did that boy yesterday. Be a gardener's toy. Show me what you showed him.'

She placed her legs around him, moving his erection quickly into her and easing herself down so he could hold her hips and control his movements better.

'My, you are open already, so wet and sloppy, such a whore. Only a whore would be this loose, this free within her, would show her enjoyment so wantonly. You have changed, little Valentine. Now, tell me, was he a big boy? Did he fill you up? Which one was the best? Tell me while I fuck you. Tell me.'

She could not open her mouth for fear of crying. She hated the way he kept saying 'whore', that she was a whore. How could she be a whore when all she had done had been at his bidding?

He held her body close to his and thrust in hard. 'Were they better than me? Is that why you dare not speak, in case you offend your master? Which one was best, tell me or I'll have them all whipped and thrown in the stocks.'

'None,' she cried. 'No-one was better than you. I thought only of you the whole time, not of them. When they were doing those things to me I imagined it was you and it made it better. It was the only way I could bear it. I closed my eyes and thought of you.'

'There,' he crooned, easing his thrusts and resuming a gently rhythm. 'That's a good girl. Squeeze me, hold me tight within, just as you did to those men. Close your eyes now and pretend I am them, just an ordinary man, not your master. You may think of them as we move together. Does it not enhance your pleasure, to be with me but think of them?'

'Yes, sir, it does.'

He smiled, not pleasantly and gripped her flesh hard, moving with increasing ferocity in her. She bit her tongue, determined not to cry out, not to give him the satisfaction of her emotions. He moved his head to her throat, kissing it, biting it gently, then harder. He seemed determined to mark her. His fingers dug into her flesh as his teeth bit her throat. He seemed to be stabbing her with as many parts of his body as he could. At last she could hold herself no more and cried out, it was that mix of pleasure and pain that the marquis had come to relish and it made his own release all the more pleasurable. His own moan shook the panes of glass in the tower windows.

He let her fall against him, her legs now wrapped loosely around him. She seemed like a doll, collapses and crumpled, abandoned by her owner. He removed the wig and mask: her face was red with crying and humiliation. Her hair matted and dull beneath the wig; her body was already showing the marks of his passion; his anger with the world. His heart softened towards her. It was impossible to look at her face and not feel moved, not see her confusion and pain. It was not possible for him to remain unmoved by her.

'I know you again, my Valentine. Where have you been all this time?' He kissed her softly to stop her replying. 'Let's to your room where I'll order a bath, a good supper and let you rest in your bed. Sleep for a day, for two. Rest easy, my girl.'

She smiled at him despite herself.

'And then I have a new task for you.'

In the morning she awoke sore and sorry, her neck covered in tiny purple bruises, her bottom with the prints of the marquis' fingers turning an ugly purple-yellow on her skin. She shook her head to free it from the incident in the tower. She no longer knew what she felt. Mostly she hated him, but there was a moment last night when his eyes had softened and she thought she saw his old feelings for her return. She sighed and returned to sleep, weary through to her bones, numb to her core.

Mathilde arrived the next afternoon with two letters. One was from Pierre and the other the latest instructions from the marquis. She had a new outfit for Valentine to wear as she was going away for a time.

Intrigued, Valentine tore open the letter from the Duke of Burgundy. How strange to receive a letter from him at this time, when her heart was ripped from its moorings. Did he sense something?

My dearest Valentine

Not a day goes by that I do not think of you. I missed you at Alexei's wedding. I had anticipated the pleasure of dancing with you again but was sadly disappointed by your absence.

I am travelling to Paris within the week and should like to extend a welcome to you to join me there should you find yourself in Paris with Guy, who may soon keep his promise to you.

With or without him, you are welcome in my home in Paris. In fact, I would have you join me on my travels if it were possible.

Remember me when your contract is expired.

You remain in my heart, I hope I remain in yours.

Your faithful servant

Pierre, Duke of Burgundy.

Valentine handed the letter to Mathilde. 'Well, I never,' she smiled. 'It seems your problems of life after the contract are solved, my dear.'

Valentine shrugged. 'But he is married. I would simply be the mistress of another man.'

Mathilde nodded. 'Perhaps a better man?' she said handing Valentine the marquis' instructions, knowing how unhappy she would be. 'It is not an offer to quickly dismiss, I feel.'

Valentine nodded, smiling thoughtfully, folding the letter away and locking it in her box. 'He seems a kinder man. I will not forget his words.'

Her brief cheerfulness vanished as she read the marquis' letter. She held her tears in check, her emotions frozen by his first line.

Valentine,

I am removing you from the chateau for some time. One of my farmers is in need of a female servant. He needs a housemaid and a dairy maid and as you are of strong peasant stock and it is time to be readied for your return to your world, I have offered him your services for one of the positions.

I have provided you with suitable clothing. Remember your origins and do not bring shame upon your family or me in your time at the farm.

This will be on a trial basis. You are to take instruction from the farmer. I expect you to perform your duties as a maid and any other duties as requested. I will visit the farmer from time to time to enquire about your progress. I expect him to tell me a good story.

Guy, de Chatillon

She screwed the letter up and threw it on the fire, laughing bitterly. 'Tell a good story. Now I am to be a whore to farm boys. He must truly hate me.'

Mathilde bowed her head. She was horrified by the contents of the letter but could find no words to comfort Valentine. She wondered about the marquis: what had happened to him? She remembered him as a nice boy, happy enough but quiet around the chateau. Gerard had been a show off, a bit of a bully, prone to jokes at others' expense, especially the servant girls around the house. But Guy had been polite to all, knew his place, kept himself to himself, trailed around after his brother and father, always in their shadows, both larger than life characters, both sure of themselves and their place in the world: born to rule. The old marquis had loved both his boys, but the lion's share of attention went to Gerard as the eldest son, thus Guy had gravitated to Elise, who had indulged him. Perhaps too much? Mathilde remembered how much Elise had cried the day Guy had left for court. Elise held a proud face to the world as her favourite son set off in the weak early morning sunshine, standing by the marquis formally fare-welling him. But in the privacy of her chambers she paced and wailed, inconsolable, knowing her boy was gone forever.

He returned home as his father lay dying. Returning to support his mother and brother in those dark days as the old marquis' life leaked from him. He was now a fine young man, resplendent in his uniform, confident and calm, almost more assured than Gerard, after his time at the palace and in the army. He was as polite as ever, but distanced from those around him, a stranger in his home. Mathilde wondered if he had expected never to return home.

He had withstood many years of sadness; his father's death, although expected, came as a blow to all. Gerard's death was unexpected and tragic and threw the world off its axis. Guy had no choice but to take on the many responsibilities of the chateau. In many ways he was better suited than Gerard, who had always been more reckless, less inclined towards responsibility, thus the manner of his death really came as no surprise. And then, within months the new marquis lost his gentle wife and his child, in an act of supreme cruelty: childbirth, perhaps the most dangerous event for a woman and child.

Mathilde knew the loss of his wife and child had deeply affected him and he wore his loss bravely. She thought he cared for Valentine and had been considerate and generous towards her, more than she had seen from his brother or father. She'd thought, as Sophie had, that he loved Valentine. Where had the cruelty come from? Neither his father or brother had treated their mistresses cruelly. Mostly they had been intent on getting as many sons as possible, the fact that it had not happened was a burden to all. Mathilde, like the dowager, wondered if the family was cursed. Elise had produced two sons, but one was dead; Odette's son had died, Guy's son was stillborn and Valentine had only become pregnant after sleeping with other men. Was the marquis punishing Valentine for his own sins, his own guilt?

Mathilde helped Valentine into her new dress. She winced when she beheld the bruises on the young girl. It was worse than she thought. She feared for Valentine going off to this farm, so obviously much better than them, her skin and manners too good, too easy to be scorned and derided. Even clothed in a peasant's dress of the plainest fabric and the dullest colours, with a modest bonnet it was clear that Valentine was no longer a peasant girl. Her bearing and beauty marked as special even in these terrible clothes. What was the marquis thinking?

'Am I to go alone?' Valentine asked quietly.

Mathilde nodded. 'It seems so. No-one else has been asked to prepare for a journey so you will be taken from us to be alone with the farm workers. I am sure they will be kind to you. Perhaps it is time to remember who you are and be that again.'

Valentine nodded sadly. She gripped Mathilde's hands, hoping it would not be the last time they met.

'Perhaps the farmer will be a kind man,' Valentine said. 'Perhaps there is a boy there who could marry me. He will not know who I am, so perhaps there is a chance?' She looked imploringly at Mathilde, who nodded sadly.

'Perhaps it is better to marry a peasant than to be the mistress of an aristocrat?' Why would she expect Pierre to be better than Guy once she was at his mercy? No, her choices were clear, a kind man of her own class or the church. She sighed, at least this life would be over soon.

'All will be well,' Mathilde said. 'Pray to God for your soul and all will be well. Remember this too will be pass.' She kissed Valentine and left her to compose herself before she was taken away in a cart to the farm, some two hours away.

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